The Lady and the Bricklayer, page 10
part #3 of Ladies & Strays Series
Millicent nodded in understanding.
Marge slid sideways until she gave a wide berth to scurry out of the room without even curtsying.
Charles took a few seconds to turn to his daughter. "What a spoil-sport." He vented under his breath, imagining she wouldn't hear it. "A fortunate event that the folie is almost ready. I can marry you off and be rid of your annoying intrusion."
Which arose two considerations in her. The first was that in a matter of days, Martin would vanish from this house and her life. The notion begot a foreign emotion mixing wistfulness and a sense of loss that had no reason to exist. And she refused to give it further thought.
The second was that she stood as a thin barrier between the servants and Charles. She had no way of learning the things he did when he travelled to his seat in the country. She’d not been there since Dinah died. There was every chance that the duke perpetrated his cruelty in the country away from London’s prying eyes. And it caused desperation in her that she could do nothing to avoid it. History would repeat itself at Haddington House as soon as she had her trunks loaded onto a carriage.
She’d often taken trips to the country to visit her friends with her lady’s maid in tow, and sometimes even a chaperone. What happened in this house while she’d been gone remained a mystery. Unless Charles exited the picture, no maid, no woman, would count herself safe. An impossible feat, a duke being virtually protected from any liability. Her sire’s words revealed he’d seen what she’d been doing, and that he planned to have the coast clear to give free rein to his inclinations.
It saddened her how little she could do about it. She had no control over his actions and they’d forever be cruel.
“I can’t wait to make an advantageous match, You Grace,” she complied to lessen his frustration, lest he stalk the poor maid when Millicent absented herself to visit friends.
“The ton is already abuzz with the fortune I put on your head.” He taunted with relish. And she hoped he’d forgotten about Marge.
“Auspicious news.” She led him on, not about to risk her plans for the sake of defying him.
He faced her full on now. "I'm assuming you were the one who allowed that piece of filth to use the guest-chamber."
The duke’s derogatory remark made her temper flare. Her eyes narrowed to fuming slits, her nostrils inhaled sharp air, her cool in serious jeopardy. That morning she’d knocked on the guest’s chamber to check on Martin but he’d been gone, already toiling in the garden from dawn, she’d been told.
“That piece of filth…” her uncensored throat spewed. She was going to say that Martin risked his life to serve the duke, but her sire interrupted her.
“See that you don’t make this mistake again,” he warned and brushed past her to the hallway.
She thought him a piece of filth, did she.
Martin pounded hammer to chisel wishing to take said hammer to statues and everything he encountered until he reduced this very folie to rubble.
Unannounced, he’d entered the house having heard she’d headed to the library. He walked there to give back the books she’d lent him. He’d finished them in the nights he’d lain alone in his makeshift quarters. The open room let him overhear the conversation between father and daughter. As the odious man exited the library, Martin had hidden behind a tall vase in the dimly lit hallway. But his ire had been too intense and he’d retraced his way back to the folie, the risk of an outburst imminent.
He’d been using the hammer and chisel to give the final touches on the plaster and correct any imperfection that had been left behind. Towards the end of the day, he took off the protective canvas and cleaned the marble meticulously until it gleamed.
But the undiluted rage coursing through him defied description. So, this piece of filth had proved good enough for a tryst before she married a bloody nob! And graced his bed with her ladylike person.
Hell, but if he could overthrow this entire shitty town, he would! With his bare hands.
Good thing that he’d be out of here soon. He wished to be as far as possible from these callous people. He’d been right about trees and fruit, the refined lady showed to be just like her father. Good riddance, the lot of them!
At sunset, he washed and headed to the kitchen for dinner. He’d make sure to enjoy it fully, as he imagined that he’d finish his task here tomorrow or the next day at most. Though it was made for servants, the food held better quality than what he ate back home.
With a lantern by his mattress on the floor, he shuffled through one of the books, reading the parts he wished to keep in his memory. Had he succeeded in giving them back, he’d have asked for another tome to read. But things happened as they did. He refused to remember that scene in the library; he deserved rest after a hard day’s work.
A few hours into his reading, he heard the door scrape open. The scent of rosemary reached him even before the dim light fell on her.
The sharp mixture of feelings that unleashed in him nearly tore him in two. The tempestuous desire that boarded on obsession. The care she dispensed to him when he hurt himself, their feverish kisses in this very folie, and the volcanic loathe at her conversation with the duke. It embroiled his insides in one molten ball, none of those feelings taking supremacy.
A delicate hand pushed the pane closed as she stood by it, eyeing him, hands folded in front of her.
“Duchess,” he rasped, the tempest inside defeating any sensible will.
At his call, her slipper-wrapped feet moved on the marble gleaming in the lantern and the fire in the grate.
“Searching for a stud for the night?” He derided, one corner of his mouth coming up in a scornful grin.
She entered the pool of light to reveal crimson cheeks even if her chin notched up in that haughty way of hers. “Yes.” Though cold, it came enveloped in a breathy quality that reflected right in his rebellious cock.
“Come here,” he ordained.
In the light, he registered she wore a long redingote. She gave a step that broke through its front opening. Another step, and underneath there was a—bloody hell!—chemise. All he had to do was to unbutton the redingote and… His straining erection completed the thought.
“Take your hair down.” Came his second command.
He heard her inhale and watched the way it thrust her chest forward. “Martin…”
If she had any idea of what she did to him whenever she called his name in that cut-glass way of hers, she’d not risk it this close. It made him want to roar and beat his chest and declare her exclusively his from here to eternity.
Only they didn’t have eternity. They had now.
“Put your hair down, duchess,” he reinforced. “Because I’ll take everything from you and give things you have never imagined.”
A few more paces and she stood before him as he sat low on the mattress on the floor. He looked up at the goddess that belonged in a real temple, no, in the Olympus itself. Her arms lifted to her hair, the redingote gaping from her waist down. And afforded him another glimpse of the piece of lace that threatened collapse his control.
Those elegant fingers plucked one pin from the top of her head. Only for lustrous ebony to fall in one shiny mass around her.
Collapse nearly morphed into tragedy.
He knelt on the bedcovers like a worthless worshiper, his hands palming her back as his head sank in her warmth. Then inhaled all that was her, rosemary, woman, and arousal. Her hands came to his dishevelled hair. Her nurturing gesture gave him the false impression of coming home. She was the very opposite of home, the very opposite of him.
His arms banded her waist and brought her to him. A little whelp escaped her when he laid her down carefully, her hair spreading all over the bed like a dream come true.
A palm on her hip, he inclined to bury his face in the glossy strands. His palm travelled to her thigh and up. His lips touched her temple and slithered down a silky cheek, a dainty ear to her neck. The palm reached one breast, undid the buttons. The lips found the joining with her collarbone and extracted a sigh from her, her fingers tracing his bicep. The redingote fell open and he trailed to the chemise’s edge at the same time his finger pulled its string. He lowered the neckline to reveal breasts made to send a poor mortal like him to the pit of the blazes.
His leg wedged hers as he covered one breast with his palm and the other with his raunchy mouth. Her head fell back on the pillow with a moan. His hips pressed the rampant rogue between his legs on her, declaring his despicable need for a woman he shouldn’t want with such agonising urgency. But he cared no more, cared about nothing.
His open mouth scored back up to latch on that piece of decadence that was hers. And kissed her with such a ferocious hunger it daunted him. The joining of lips made everything crumble around them. Her arms laced him, his laced her waist, moans trapped in their throats. Their tongues clashed, duelled, demanded, yielded. He took everything, gave double as much. She multiplied the result and made them madder.
He turned his head this way and that, kissed her deeper, plunged in a sea of excruciation meant to destroy everything in its wake. He must have kissed her for hours, or at least he should have done so to last for a lifetime. Because after her, there would be no woman on this earth that would do for him.
The thought caused him to jerk to a sitting position. His eyes roamed over her messed up strands, half-undone clothes, pointy, dusky nipples jutting from their folds. This deity was his woman. His!
While he’d taken her in, she’d been ogling him with those keen grey-brown eyes of hers.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordained as he tore off his shirt.
After a moment of surveillance, she sat up, waist-length hair gathering at her back, and let the redingote slide down her shoulders as her breasts jiggled. Not one to resist temptations, Martin lowered his head and gobbled one. The sound of pleasure she emitted inflated his ego and other parts. No, not really. The other parts were already inflated to bursting point.
Her chemise went down her hips, legs, and pooled at the foot of the makeshift bed lit by the flickering light from the lantern. Then he was in serious trouble as there was nothing under it. She was all naked woman for his eyes to feast on the slim waist, shapely hips, and legs long enough to drive a man to sell his soul for them.
He unbuttoned his breeches and rucked them midthighs. His portentous erection popped out proud and on the brink. Her eyes locked on it, her teeth sinking on her lower cushiony lip.
“See this, duchess?” Her gaze flared. “It’s yours for the night.” The goggle made it twitch. “Say you want it.” His throat had constricted with desire, producing grave sounds.
Her head nodded sending wavy tresses around her narrow shoulders. “Yes,” she breathed.
“Then I’ll ride you like no man rode a lofty lady before,” he growled the promise, hoping he could fulfil it in his current extreme state.
And got down to it.
He rid himself of his lower clothes as quick as possible. And laced her waist, latching their mouths again, taking her down with him to the rumpled bedclothes. He lodged his hips between her thighs, and they entangled in each other with abandon.
His mouth broke the rapacious kiss and swam down her body as a shipwreck towards land. At the junction of her thighs, he detected the patch of midnight whorls glistening with moisture. He directed her a wicked look before diving to wreckage itself. The loud gasp she aired told him they'd go under together. He ate her out as though it was his last meal, tasting all of her, sucking on her inflated nubbin and her slippery inner lips with relish.
“Martin, please!” she begged. But in reality, he was the one starving. So, he fed her one finger and earned a gush of approval.
His tongue and finger insisted on her flesh and orchestrated her soaring flight accompanied by a long moan while her channel vibrated on his digit.
He came up to make her turn on her side and connected his chest with her spine. “Bend your leg, duchess,” he ground out. If he took her looking at her eyes, he’d lose himself. More than he already had.
She did, and he positioned himself as his cock found her slick entrance and his arm banded her waist. He thrust and sank in an excruciating paradise, her tight, wet channel clutching him like it’d never let go. And froze in a quest to last more than a second.
As though his goddess would allow for it. After she'd got used to him, her hips moved in search of him and the only thing he could do was lunge towards his debacle. But there was no stopping now. In serrated breaths, he retreated and went for more, his hand moving up her torso, his index diving into her lips. Instinctively, she sucked his finger like her body was sucking the hell out of his lamentable shaft.
In despair, he buried his stubble on the curve of her shoulder, droplets of sweat on his forehead. Her channel tormented his every thrust depleting his will to resist certain calamity.
Her body heated even more, and he lowered his hand to pinch her breast, her spine arching into him. He trembled with the effort not to succumb. Her moans incited him faster, deeper until her body clenched him to torturous levels and she released repeated sobs. Then he clambered happily to his downfall in mindless thrusts. He exited her and housed his cock between the cheeks of her back to rub on her as he spilt deranged amounts of seed.
And just like that, she ravaged him with irreversible precision.
Chapter Seven
Millicent lay on her side, an elated feeling coursing through her in the aftermath of what could only be defined as an earthquake of sensation. Martin spooned and wrapped her with all those rippling muscles, cocooning her in contentment.
“Are you hurt?” he burred, stubble mouth on her nape. She’d have scratches from where he’d gifted her with his tender ministrations
As she finished dinner this evening, she’d headed to her bedchamber with her lady’s maid to fill trunks with her belongings at the pretext of travelling to see her friends up north. Her father didn’t mind her travels as long as she didn’t start any scandal. Packing done, lady’s maid gone to sleep, Millicent sat on her bed planning for nothing to go wrong the next day.
That was when an overwhelming longing took her by storm. Her life on the brink of changing to a future she’d been wishing for years. But the only man she’d ever wanted lay mere yards from her. Once she moved out though, and he ended his job here, they’d become as distant as the Himalayas from Australia. He’d sprint back to his world and she… She’d follow in her safe and lonely life.
The notion had begotten despair. They'd not see each other again, living in such separate universes. It'd spurred her into action. Without Jen to help her dress, she'd just thrown the redingote over her chemise and left her chambers. She'd been ruined for four years, so why not actually gain something from it?
Her head half turned to him. “Not at all,” she answered still dazed with satiety.
Servants retired, the duke out for the night, Millicent had weaved her way to the garden, heart pounding, nerves alive.
The moment she entered the folie and crossed eyes with Martin, she’d surrendered herself to the night. To him.
It had been, oh, it had been soul-melting, like her world had shifted, dismantled and come back together in a different way. He’d revealed to be a generous, ardent partner.
And she wanted to repeat it. Infinitely.
He left the bed and she turned on her back to watch him dipping a cloth in a basin and returning. He washed her with extreme care but his eyes didn’t meet hers. She observed the play of the warm lantern light on the planes of his body, the flickering candle casting him in gold. If he donned the Greek tunics, he’d owe nothing to the gods the sculptors immortalised.
Still not looking at her, he cleaned himself and put the cloth aside. Then, and only then, did he sit by her and latch those russet eyes on hers.
“My sister,” his voice low and hard. “Your father assaulted her.” His gaze had morphed into monoliths, remote and chilly.
Millicent’s mind ground to an astonished halt. She stared at him unable to utter a single word. There was nothing she could say that would lessen his sister’s hurt. She just lay there thinking to comfort him, but he seemed so out of reach. And her faulty brain couldn’t even ask his sister’s name.
“He ruined her.” Martin continued. “And now I ruined you.” He directed her a frosty grin. “We’re all quits.”
If she was stunned before, at this moment, she froze. Nothing in her moved, not even her lungs. Something inside her broke, shattered. She felt herself being dragged down by his words, like a sinking ship in a storm. But she forced herself to swallow it; swallow it together with her rising bitter tears.
Then laughed—loud, crystalline—as though she was watching one of those cheap plays in a market.
Martin’s eyes bulged.
Millicent sprang from the bed and fished her chemise. “Ruined?” She dressed the lacy piece. “I’ve been ruined for years.”
His brows crumpled. “But you were—” His head lowered to where she’d lain, the proof of her maidenhead staining the sheet.
“You don’t understand our ways.” She made sure her haughty tone had clicked into place. “How could you?” This came derogatory. “I faked a betrothal with a lord. He broke it publicly. It did the job.”
With decisive movements, she retrieved the redingote. "I came here to see what was in it for me." And gave him a disdainful, slight stretch of her lips. "You fit the mould." The redingote wrapped her while she turned to leave. Her hand freed her hair from inside the coat as her head turned to him, a smug look on her face. "Goodbye, Baker."
Chin up, Millicent fairly strolled to the door.
Her mask lasted only until she reached the house. Inside, she crumbled. Breath irregular, she stumbled along the hallways, little gasps struggling to keep the tears at bay. Reaching her chambers' wing, the air became scarce, one hand sought the wall's support, her head falling forward, tears now escaping her eyes. She forced herself to keep straight, to keep putting one foot ahead of the other. Blinded by the tears, she groped for the doorknob and barged into her rooms. She made it as far as the sitting room before she collapsed on the carpet, her loose hair curtaining her face. Then the sobs came in earnest.
